Ride. Write.

“I’m missing a…” I want to say thong, but I know that’s wrong. That thong is a very different breed of noun here. That to say that I’m missing one sends an accusatory message that suggests both impropriety and shady-man weirdness. “A flip-flop,” I say. Elaine looks puzzled. “You know, a flip-flop? Um, I don’t know what else you’d call them here. I want to say ‘thong’ but that’s not right. Um. It’s a…” I make a motion with my hands that doesn’t really indicate anything except maybe the item I’m speaking off is the size of a meal-sized trout. …

“That storm’s coming for me,” I joke to myself, immediately thinking “That’ll make a nice first line for today’s blog.” A storm coming for me. Nice semi-dramatic lead. Legs churning, spinning, I pedal furiously, laughing to myself at the ridiculousness and futility of my 4mph headwind plight. Yes, a nice start. I’ll be able to talk about the storm and how it looked terribly menacing (fact). About how it came for me and at the last minute turned like a shy boy and went off in the other direction (hearsay). Of a wind that blew and blew and blew itself …

Each day on my ride across America, I would upload a photograph which would become the background of the Yes, I am Precious site. I had a few requests to put those photos somewhere, so they’re over on flickr if you want one in high res. I cobbled this video together just for fun, and set it to Tombstone Blues, my favorite Bob Dylan song of all time. It’s weird to think that these photos are taken just one day apart – this country truly changes from day to day, sometimes very dramatically. This is a compilation of those photographs …

End. The Larned water tower. In a whispered thrill it calls to me, again and again. A silver solder blob in the distance. A shiny christmas tree ball rolling around on the horizon’s carpet. “Over here, over here!” it says. “C’mon, you can make it. Come stick your tongue in the socket of my wheat silo and taste the splendor of my small town aura.” I hear you, strange-talking ball. I hear what you say, weirdo. It taunts me mercilessly with its sing-song cheeriness and just there attitude. For miles. For ever. For no good reason. But it never gets …

The screaming bitch comes out of nowhere. I am looking through my Nikon so it takes a moment for me to see her hackled fur coming for me. Even when I do notice she’s just a little dot of advancing size, materializing from behind the chicken sign. Dogs in lens appear further away than they are. Noted. She’s low-ground, flat-out, silent running at first, but soon cranks it up to big-belly barking and growling. And holy crap another blue heeler who hates me for no reason. My last nerve twangs like the A string on a cello before it ptwangs …

The fingers of God. I think that’s what they call it. When holes in the cloud ceiling let light from the sun reach down like straight phalanges to the earth and touch it in an overly familiar manner. I stand by the side of the road and admire as it beams on down to a patch on a hill and beyond. These fingers aren’t that elegant – God must’ve got his fingers caught in a door or something – but the effect is still pleasing to me. No photo captures its true spirit. Doesn’t stop me trying. Oh, clouds. Are …